


The One Where Reaper Wears Swim Shorts

by Castanea



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, Gun Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 15:40:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12345633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castanea/pseuds/Castanea
Summary: The first time Gabriel bothers using the Talon pool, he's interrupted by the man he spends his days chasing down. One-shot. Written on a dare.





	The One Where Reaper Wears Swim Shorts

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I have never played Overwatch. This fic is an experiment, to see if the things I've picked up via osmosis are enough to piece together a decent fic. After I'd finished, I went back and tweaked a few things for accuracy, but the timeline's still a bit AU. 
> 
>  
> 
> This was written for a friend. You know who you are.

Talon has a pool. It’s for strength and endurance training, ostensibly, but Sombra lounges there in a neon pink floatie sometimes, and if anyone’s used it for anything else, ever, Gabriel wouldn’t know. It’s just an obstacle on the way to the weight room. The water doesn’t even ripple unless the facility AC is at full blast. It looks less like a pool and more like a sheet of glowing glass someone could walk across. Gabriel doesn’t know whether he enjoys the stillness or whether what he really wants is to dive right in. 

It’s Friday. Every atom of him aches, so he dives in. 

He wishes he could say it feels good, but it doesn’t feel like anything. That’s okay. All he wanted was to pretend Friday could mean something, like it hasn’t since he was a teenager. He killed twelve people today and he’ll kill more tomorrow; right now he’s swimming. 

He takes himself through different styles: breaststroke, freestyle, backstroke. Five laps of each, to start. It loosens him up. His ruined nose catches the smallest whiff of chlorine, which improves the whole experience in an instant. That comforting summer smell. 

The exercise has turned him almost meditative, when the peace is broken by a quiet but unmistakable ‘click.’ He pauses in the middle of the deep end. Nothing seems different. He turns around to double-check, and notices that the bottom in the room’s main air vent has swung wide open. 

Down comes a rope. Down comes a man with a mess of white hair and a covered face, lowering himself effortlessly to the floor. Gabriel’s too surprised to move. Of course he knew he was going to meet Soldier:76 again, sooner or later. He hadn’t realized it would be this soon. Not in the Talon rec area while he’s wearing pool shorts and absolutely nothing else. In a way, he supposes, it’s the perfect opportunity for assassination. He has no armor or weapons on him. The water makes it harder for him to move as a de-materialized cloud. He wonders if 76 planned for this somehow, or if the man’s just as surprised at the situation as he is. Judging by the mutual stare, Gabriel’s betting on the latter. He wishes his swimming shorts weren’t so clingy. 

Out comes the gun – a slim pistol rather than the usual clunky rifle, perfect for worming through air vents. 76 has a manual-perfect stance. Crisp like they teach ‘em at the Academy, or like they used to. It sticks to something in the back of Gabriel’s mind. 

“Don’t move.” 

Gabriel doesn’t move. He treads the requisite amount of water needed to keep himself afloat, and plays the man’s words over in his head. He hasn’t heard 76 speak before. His suspicion grows, and the only way to test it further is to keep 76 talking. 

“You know you can’t kill me with that,” Gabriel tells him. 

“I’m pretty sure I can slow you down.” 

But 76 doesn’t shoot him. There’s no reason for him not to, unless he’s after something other than Reaper’s death. Gabriel swims a tentative foot forward. 

“Don’t move,” 76 repeats. 

“So fire already. You’ve got me where you want me.” 

No response to that. Gabriel keeps going. 76 thumbs the safety off, like that means anything. He taps his foot, just once, and that’s what gives the game away. Only one jackass in the whole world has a perfect stance and a bad habit of tapping his foot in tense situations. Gabriel’s not breathing now; he barely needs to anyway. This is the answer he’s been after, right in front of him. He puts his hands on the rim of the pool and hoists himself out of the water. Two steps forward. Three steps. Four. They’re close enough to touch. 

“You don’t know when to quit, do you?” 

“Shut up,” says Gabriel. He reaches out. No one stops him. 

The visor comes off easier than he expected. The black plating below it, too. Of course, of course, he thinks, when he sees the face underneath. It’s an older face now but it’s whole. It bears two parallel scars. He feels a jolt of anger and jealousy, but greater than both is the relief that comes after. Jack Morrison isn’t dead, and Jack Morrison isn’t broken either. Unless – a thought rips through him. He eases a hand down the front of Morrison’s coat, which elicits a flinch, though the gun doesn’t waver. He drops the visor. Morrison’s lucky Gabriel doesn’t throw it in the pool. Now Gabriel has both hands free, so he slips the other one in too. 

“Hey! You don’t need to pat me down, I have a pistol right here.” 

“I told you to shut up.” 

It’s hard to feel anything through that black body suit. It’s even harder with dulled nerves that only pick up pain and heat with any reliability. Gabriel tries anyway. He feels for metal, for rough spots where skin gives way to prosthetic augmentation. He finds none. Morrison’s chest is flesh, Morrison’s fingertips are flesh, his hips – 

“Buy a guy a hot meal first.” 

“I’ve bought you dozens of hot meals, Jack. Assuming I’m remembering right.” 

“You are” Jack admits – and now Gabriel has called him Jack out loud, and he’s answered to it, a sped-up rehash of the moment three years into their friendship when they began to call each other by their first names. If they continue this trajectory, another ten minutes will have them shouting at each other over a conference table. Those days don’t seem so long ago. Not in this particular moment. Gabriel feels an echo of that same tension they’d carried towards the end, when it took a cigarette or a thorough beat-off to chase away his edge.  
His hands are still at Jack’s hips. He squeezes, just a little. 

“I knew you weren’t dead,” Gabriel says. “No one believed me. But I knew. I was going to track you down.” 

“To kill me?” 

“Maybe.” 

Unfinished business. It’s all unfinished business with him. They never settled that fight, and they never got whatever this was out of their systems. 

Jack’s not wearing a body-suit; it’s actually a very tight turtleneck. Gabriel knows because he’s found the hem. He can’t feel much these days but he can feel the heat coming off Jack’s skin. He drags his thumb past the band of Jack’s pants. 

“You want to know why I’m here?” Jack asks him. The answer is, not really. It won’t be anything good. 

“Not really.”

“I want to know if you blew me up on purpose,” Jack says. “You’re gonna tell me the truth.” 

Gabriel holds up two fingers. “First off, do you think I did it on purpose? And second...” 

He drops to his knees. He has nothing to lose. Less than nothing. There are two ways this meeting can go, and thank God he knows exactly which one he wants. 

“...Second,” he continues, from his puddle of pool water on the floor, “You can’t tell me what to do anymore.” 

He catches Jack’s expression. It’s everything he was hoping it would be. Jack’s holding the gun, but he’s the one looking like he’s lost control of the encounter. Gabriel used to collect those frowns when they sparred together, used to savor each time he caught Jack off his guard. Would Jack have looked at him like this if Gabriel had pulled him aside during the war? If he’d dropped to his knees for him back then, would they even be here? 

Jack doesn’t lower the gun, but he doesn’t interfere. So Gabriel gets to work. He hasn’t done this since before he died, hasn’t even … well. Now he can. He works Jack’s pants open. The pool filter is still gurgling from the ripples Gabriel left behind. It’s the only sound in the room. Jack’s already tenting the front of his briefs, an encouraging sign. Gabriel pulls at the fabric with his lips. 

“What is --” Jack’s voice breaks on a hitch of air, “--even happening right now?” 

“You can think of it as a trigger discipline exercise, if you want.” 

That gets a grudging laugh. Gabriel used to collect those too. The memory sets fire to his impatience, so he tugs the briefs down. He allows himself a long moment to look. 

“You want to know the truth?” he says, his mouth half an inch from the tip of Jack’s cock, “I’ve always wanted to do this.” 

The gun doesn’t move for the first lick. Or the third. When Gabriel takes the whole length of him in, he catches the barest twitch of Jack’s fingers. He works him over good, with an abandon that eluded him in life-before-death. Jack must be enjoying it, ‘cause he hasn’t shot him yet. Maybe the man’s too much of a soldier to let himself go completely. It’s possible that Jack Fucking Morrison will remain perfectly stoic even as he comes in Gabriel’s mouth. Well, that’s not acceptable. 

Gabriel reaches for Jack’s spare hand, the one hanging uselessly in the air, and pulls it down to his scalp. There’s not enough hair there for grabbing, really, but Jack should get the gist. 

“You going easy on me, Morrison? You shouldn’t.” 

The fingers on his scalp tighten. Gabriel looks up in time to see Jack’s lips opening and closing on empty air, half-said words. He tastes a sudden rush of pre-come, salty and slick on his tongue. It’s obvious Jack wants this, but he thinks it’s a ploy, waiting for the moment his old teammate dissolves into a cloud of black and comes at him as Reaper. Gabriel’s not entirely sure he’s wrong. It doesn’t matter. Jack’s in his mouth and he tastes warm and good. They have this moment, then they can go back to hunting each other. Gabriel runs his lips slowly around the end of Jack’s cock, and Jack’s hips jerk forward just a hair’s breadth… It’s not enough. 

“Jack, do you need a request in writing? Fuck my mouth.” 

That gets a response, thank Christ. The first proper thrust, and something breaks, some tension lifts at last. Jack groans. He pushes himself right to the back of Gabriel’s throat, again and again. The sound is obscene. Jack drops the gun, and Gabriel doesn’t know what to do with that. He has his opening. It’s right there. Dimly, he thinks, ‘That’s bad trigger discipline.’ Then Jack has both hands on the back of his head, nails digging in, and Gabriel’s harder than he can ever remember being, watching all that resolve fall apart. 

Jack says, “Gabe,” which he knows Gabriel finds annoying, and that’s all the warning he gives. He comes in hot bursts that go on and on, head dipped back, his whole body shuddering like he hasn’t orgasmed in years. Maybe he hasn’t. Gabriel swallows him down with a surge of smugness. He licks Jack clean until the oversensitivity becomes too much and he’s pushed away. 

Gabriel stands, taking in the mess before him: Soldier:76 with his face bared, his dick out, his stupid black turtleneck pushed up, panting like he’s just stepped out of the training yard. It’s a good look for him. Of course the gun is still on the ground, almost as tempting as Jack. A gun held to the back of his head would complete the image nicely, Jack Morrison shown up in the best ways possible. 

The problem with all of this is that Jack seems to have forgotten the gun. He always was that second or two slower when waking up, or when changing plans unexpectedly. Getting blown within an inch of his life appears to produce a similar effect. Jack thinks they’re still having sex, and so he grabs Gabriel’s head again, and – 

This wasn’t the plan. Jack kisses like he fucked, after he let go of his restraint. It’s a challenge that can’t go unanswered. Gabriel picks him up by the shoulders like he’s a dollar store mannequin and backs them both up to the wall. Jack says, “Fuck, yes,” and if Gabriel had room in his mind for any higher thought at all, he would be worried over who, exactly, was in charge now. He hikes Jack’s leg up. He’s desperate to find out where this is going. Jack’s still hard, this is crazy super-soldier bullshit that Gabriel’s only experienced from the other end, Jack’s tongue is in his mouth and he–- 

 

Someone’s walking down the hallway to the pool. Gabriel freezes with Jack’s hand halfway down his swimming shorts. A quick breath in, and Jack’s left holding an armful of smoke. 

Reaper (he always thinks of himself as Reaper when he does this) swarms into the shadows at the opposite side of the room faster than anyone’s eyes could follow. He watches with bitter satisfaction as Jack panics, yanks his pants back in place, and scrambles back up the rope into the air vent. Gabriel catches one last peek of inhumanly perfect abs before Jack’s gone, the rope following after. 

The approaching someone is humming … ‘Sandstorm.’ 

It’s Sombra. She has a towel around her neck and she’s brought her signature pink pool floatie tucked under one arm. Reaper tries to imagine her reaction to what has just taken place, then decides not to. She turns her back on him as she steps into the pool. 

He sweeps past silently, turning just solid enough to scoop up Jack’s gun, and visor, and faceplate. He re-materializes when he reaches his room, still wet, still breathing hard. Somewhere in the Talon complex, Jack is scrambling around. Probably breathing harder. They're not finished, the two of them. But whatever just happened between them, it feels more like a victory than any of the jobs Gabriel's done for Talon. He puts the visor to his face. It doesn't hide his smile.


End file.
